The Killing of One Hundred and Fifty Million Years

another typical day, with feet on the ground ordering the hedge to meet my image of trim many measured bits fall before the cutting edge casual thoughts detach, is there anybody in ? then some mental inner disturbance jangles with corresponding jig, nerves rip in deeper following the run of a stalk, the hang of a sprig so prune the untidy and unwelcome creeper a movement to the side of my eye is caught something is scared, behind dense vegetation the fast beating breast of a baby brown bird a frantic flutter and then much aggravation descends to the pavement in fear driven escape panic ruptures in flood, under a half sliced-off wing chest partly open, feathers flecked red with blood cupped warm in my hand, young life does cling grim realisation, fledgling with no hope pressure leaking, ebbing from a dying heart but then our eyes meet, answers it is seeking 'where's my mum, when can my flying lessons start?' the deed is now done, the light that shone has gone out just the salt of my tears at this horrible juncture the killing of one hundred and fifty million years and this clumsy ape's evolutionary puncture undiluted guilt, too much concentration to bear to forgive and assuage, soothing rational thought replacement anger and even more depressing rage bombs target children when careless wars are fought imagine that child, in screaming terrified terror in mortal trouble, reduced to core instinct base an external world has turned your home into rubble 'where's my mum, why can't I see her familiar face?'